Dreams Don't Become You
by lapiduslives
Summary: Sherlock Holmes was known as the greatest Extractor that had ever been. But two years after solving the case that broke him, Sherlock will be thrown back to the very position that left him a shell of what he once was. SH/JW friendship. Sherlock/Inception AU. More info inside.
1. 1  Masks and Falsehoods

**Dreams Don't Become You – Sherlock/Inception AU**  
><em>Sherlock – Extractor<br>John – Point Man  
>Greg – Forger<br>Anderson – Chemist  
>Molly – Architect<br>Irene – Shade  
>Mycroft – Tourist<br>Moriarty – Mark  
>(With a special appearance from Moran. Because I can.)<em>

**In a world where life is left to its own devices and dreams are the true commodity, Sherlock Holmes was known as the greatest Extractor the world had ever seen. But dreams come at a price; a fact that Sherlock knows all too well. It's been 2 years since the case that almost destroyed Sherlock Holmes; a case that left him broken, ruined, and above all, wondering if dreams**_**are**_**worth more than reality. But when given a similar case, will Sherlock let his inner demons control him? Sherlock/John friendship, Molly/Lestrade, Jim/Seb slight slash.**

**Rating: T, for now, but other chapters might require an M rating. Really depends. We'll have to see. ;)**

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><p><strong><em>Author's note: Hey everybody. This is my very first fanfic, so if you guys could rate or review or comment or all three, that'd be great. But you don't have to. As long as there are people reading this, I'm happy. I saw a gifset on tumblr that took a look at what Sherlock would be like in an Inception AU, so I decided to try it out.<em>**

**_EDIT: So sorry that I haven't updated this in over two months, but life and school and other things have been insane. I've edited this quite a bit, added some things, and I'm finished with chapter 2 (which will hopefully be uploaded in the next couple of days)._**

_"It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live." JK Rowling through Albus Dumbledore._

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><p><em>There she was again, always just out of his reach, taunting him as if she could care less about his well being or sanity. And she probably didn't; that's what made each vision more haunting than the next. He knew he would never have the chance to erase his demons as long as the one before him now continued to dominate his every waking and sleeping thought. It wasn't that he was infatuated with her in the physical sense; this was much more intimate. He had a longing to understand her thoughts and emotions like he did so easily with everyone else. But that was the thing about The Woman: she allowed you to taste her, just for a moment, and then recoiled back into her web as if daring you to venture further. But he never did, no; Sherlock Holmes never did. And he wasn't sure that he would ever get the chance, which is why now, in his drug-induced sleep, Sherlock did the unimaginable. He slowly stretched out his hand, as if testing to see if the dream would hold, and grabbed the edge of her silk dress, pulling himself closer, closer, closer….<em>

"Sherlock? You really can't be doing this right now. Sherlock, leave her alone, she's not coming back."

Sherlock awoke to the languid yet sympathetic voice of John H. Watson, whose face and dirty-blonde hair blocked out the tiny slivers of sun that shone through the curtains gracing the windows of 221B Baker Street. Sherlock stared dully into his flatmate's eyes before blinking several times, partially to alert himself that he was awake, and partially to alert John Watson. The sympathy that John's face and voice had held now slipped away as he stared at Sherlock depreciatively, eyes sweeping over his rolled up sleeve and down to the needle that protruded from between the couch cushions. As he picked up the needle delicately and set it on the table, John sighed lightly. But the weight that is held in a sigh can most definitely be measured, if not by the execution then by the number of times emitted. That sigh had been heard a thousand times alone in the privacy of the walls of 221B – once they had stepped foot in the streets of England, Sherlock had lost count – and it always held the same emotions: annoyance, grief, discontent, and disgust.

John straightened and pulled down on his argyle jumper before crossing his arms and looking down at Sherlock with disdain. "Clean yourself up and pull yourself together. The Queen is coming to visit."

"Better set out some cake," Sherlock muttered under his breath, unrolling his sleeve and buttoning the cuffs.

"Mrs. Hudson's already thought of that," John said in a slightly lighter tone. He glanced at Sherlock and gave a knowing smile. "Just makes sure you get that" - he pointed to the wasted needle - "out of sight before Mrs. Hudson sees it. She'd have a fit, you know."

Sherlock nodded solemnly, letting his flatmate believe that he was truly remorseful of his conduct. It seemed that more and more each day, he subjected John to more falsehoods as Sherlock slowly retreated into the unrest of his dreams each morning, afternoon, and night. He wore long sleeves to veil the small circles of bruised flesh. He waited to indulge in his fantasies until after John had left for work or went to bed. But the worst lies of all were the ones that Sherlock told about his feelings. Was he alright? Of course not, but John would never know. More than a few times, Sherlock had imagined taking his own life, whether by OD-ing or plummeting to his death from atop a tall building or precipice, but John would never know, because Sherlock never acted upon the urge. But for all of Sherlock's powers of deduction, he never chose to look into himself; perhaps because he didn't feel he needed to…or perhaps because he was afraid of what he might find there. A faint exclamation of "Dear God" followed by the slamming of the refrigerator door was all it took to move Sherlock off of the couch and into the bathroom before John could berate him about the bottles of sleep-inducing drugs that littered the shelves of the fridge. He stubbornly ignored the sharp rapping on the bathroom door and turned on the knobs above the sink. The water flowed like a waterfall out of the porcelain faucet and drowned out the noise of the irate army soldier on the other side of the door. Sherlock rolled up his sleeves once more, submerging his hands in the lukewarm water and staring at the small, purple souvenirs from his numerous trips to the land of dreams. Those dreams would be the death of him, he was sure of it. He unceremoniously lifted his hands to his face and slapped it numerous times before running a dripping hand through his dark, curly locks. Sherlock's pale face stared at him in the mirror, dark circles under his eyes almost matching the ones on his arms. He smirked at that ironic statement and wondered how many fashion faux-pas' he was committing while he was in this state. He grabbed a creme-colored hand towel off the rack and dried his face and hands before pressing his ear to the door. John could most definitely be heard breathing lightly on the other side, but Sherlock would not be banished to the bathroom for the remainder of his existence, and so he opened the door and stood toe-to-toe with his flatmate.

"As you've informed me, John, I have to change into more suitable clothing. So if you would kindly get on with it, I'd apprec-"

A bottle of clear liquid and an expression of disbelief were thrown his way, both catching him off guard. "What in the world," John held the bottle inches from the taller man's face and shook it ever so slightly to emphasize every word, "are these doing in the fridge? You're not supposed to bring your work back here, Sherlock, that's why we have _the lab._"

Sherlock merely shrugged and straightened his form. "I can't think in the lab. You know that better than anyone."

"But you're not using these for thinking, dammit. Irene Adler is not coming back, and y- we need to accept that."

The veins in Sherlock neck bulged as he clenched his jaw and spat, "_I _know _that _better than anyone, John. Don't pretend that you actually care about _that _incident. Because I know damn well that you don't."

John's eyes darted back and forth between Sherlock's and the beginning of a word was lost as the large knocker collided with the downstairs door. Their attentions were drawn to their landlady's sweet voice welcoming their guest, and John shook his head dolefully at Sherlock once more before stiffly retreating to the living room, where he sat down on a red armchair and picked up a book. Sherlock watched him leaf through it, never stopping on a page long enough to read a single word, and smirked. If there was one way he and John were alike, it was in their ability to hide their feelings and put on a mask of indifference, which is just what John was now attempting to do.

"Who's died, then?" John rolled his eyes at the smooth, controlled voice and set his book on the table with a soft thud. The voice belong to one Mycroft Holmes, or "The Queen" as Sherlock and John had taken to calling him just a few short years ago.

John pushed himself to his feet and folded his arms across his chest. "Excellent choice of words, Mycroft," he mumbled just loud enough for the eldest Holmes brother to hear.

Mycroft's lip curled at the comment and he glanced over at his younger brother, taking in his unusually disheveled appearance. He leaned towards John and tipped his head towards Sherlock. "It's her again, isn't it?" John nodded and shared an understand look with Mycroft.

Sherlock sighed and raised his hands in exasperation. "Good God, I'm in the room, you idiots," he shouted in frustration, causing his brother to straighten and his friend to clear his throat.

"Yes. Well. I'm sure you'd be disappointed to hear, then, that I've got a case; one that I'm sure you'll want to take."

John took the manila folder offered to him and Sherlock flopped gracelessly into black seat positioned directly across from the armchair. "_Thank God. _That's exactly what I've been needing, a case." He tried ever so hard to prevent a tone of delight from seeping into his deep voice, but to John it was as clear as a bell. Smiling, he handed the first piece of paper to Sherlock after perusing the details. The dark haired Holmes stared intently at the picture of the Mark and read the name above it; "James Moriarty."


	2. 2 Motives and Choices

**Chapter 2 - Motives and Choices**

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><p><strong>Author's note: Sorry it took so long to upload this chapter. My hard drive crashed, taking with it the 3 chapters I'd already written, and all of my other files. Including my novels I'm working on. It was quite the setback, but I was able to get this one finished from memory. Please bear with me on typos, because I'm working off of this incredible app that allows you to create Word documents on your iPad. But there's no autocorrect. <strong>

**Also, a huge thank you to my very first reviewer/commenter, ShilohHolmes. Your comment motivated me to continue. And don't worry, you'll see what the tragedy was surrounding Irene Adler. You just might have to wait several chapters. ;)**

"_All good research – whether for science or a book – is a form of obsession." __**Mary Roach.**_

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><p>"James Moriarty?"<p>

John had heard the name several times, all in news reports, crime watches, and the like. Sherlock had taken an almost unhealthy interest in the character from the very start, and with good reason; criminals like this one were few and far between, and Sherlock would most likely never get to investigate someone of James Moriarty's caliber for quite some time.

John glanced at Sherlock, surprised to see a barely contained expression of joy; an almost childish gleam behind his blue-green eyes. The look that John threw towards Mycroft was filled with helplessness and disdain, and was met with one of indifference. "You are aware what you've just unleashed?" the doctor grumbled softly.

"Well aware, Watson. I've given him just the case to break him out of this state of melancholy." Mycroft sank into the red armchair and crossed his legs, resting his chin on his steepled fingers. "So," he directed his attention to his brother, "will you take the case?"

The room fell into silence as the younger Holmes locked eyes with the elder and wordlessly weighed the proposition. Finally, he waved his hand in front of his face in dismissal and leaned back in the chair he occupied. "Of course we'll take the case. John, fetch those boxes out of the kitchen cupboard, would you?"

"Yeah, sure – _we'll _take the case? Sherlock…"

"John, can't you see? Just grab those boxes."

John hated that; the complete disregard for opinions and the tone of voice Sherlock used, letting him know full well just what he thought lf John's intelligence. And the fact that once the gears started turning in Sherlock's mind, there would be no stopping him. "What boxes?"

The dark haired man sighed and picked up the file once more, bringing his feet up to sit perched like a bird of prey. "Farthest bottom door on the left. I had them stored in your closet, but honestly, it was far too small."

When no additional instruction came from his flatmate, John turned on his heel, marched over to the kitchen like a scolded child, and opened the cupboard to reveal just the boxes Sherlock had been referring to. There were four of them, all durable cardboard, and they were promptly set between the two Holmes brothers. At first glance, John assumed they were the boxes used to store the evidence for past cases, but when he caught sight of four large, industrial, black and silver boxes, he was quickly proven wrong. The containers that sat along the wall closest to the flat door were the ones that held the files of each and every case that Holmes and Watson had been a part of, solved or otherwise. So when the cardboard boxes were opened and shown to be filled with countless other files, John's curiosity was piqued.

Each file was meticulously placed into its respective hanging folder, many of which had indicatory tabs with names such as "dates", "suspects", and "crimes". Sherlock went straight to the folder labeled "Mark" and gingerly pulled it out as if it were the most precious thing in the world. He then began to peruse it, leaving Mycroft and John in the cold. The latter cleared his throat and was met with a look of disapproval from the Extractor. After several minutes of painful silence, John abruptly crossed the floor and stood behind his flatmate, hands resting on the back of the chair. This naturally earned him a groan mixed with a sigh of exasperation, courtesy of Sherlock, who had informed John numerous times of his annoyance with people hovering over him. If the shorter man were to be frank, he could care less about Sherlock's pet peeves at the present. As he peered over the Extractor's shoulder, he saw the contents of the folder; on the uppermost left hand corner was a small mug shot – headshot, more like, what with the poised and grooming of the subject – that had been attached to the folder using a slightly bent paper clip. The man whose image it held gave John two very different impressions. The first was that the subject had an air of confidence akin to blatant narcissism;the second being that he held more knowledge than a first glance would give him credit. He wore a black suit with a white collared shirt, his dark hair matching the dark look in his brown eyes. His mouth was pulled into the smallest of smirks and John couldvaguely see the tip of his tongue through his teeth, as if he had been about to lick his lips when the shot was taken.

John was suddenly met with a different sight when Sherlock flipped the page, revealing an even more puzzling set of information. Typed out were the case names of various jobs Sherlock and he had solved, with dates and relevant names in parentheses. Scribbled in between the margins were indecipherable notes in red ink – definitely Sherlock's writing – but perhaps the most confusing of all were the arrows that connected each case to the next. At the bottom of the page sat an unmarked case that was simply labeled "Irene". Sherlock turned the page once more and the two men found themselves staring into the piercing eyes of Miss Adler herself.

John heard Sherlock suck in a sharp breath before mumbling a few words and struggling to continue to the next page. If Mycroft had noticed then he certainly hadn't let on, but John had seen the way Sherlock's hand had trembled and how his face had involuntarily twitched at the sudden subjection to the picture. He promptly shut the folder and tapped his foot rapidly, something he did in order to calm his nerves.

"So, James Moriarty. 'The Napoleon of Crime'." Sherlock had quickly regained control of his emotions, much to John's chagrin. "What _have _you gotten yourself into, Mycroft?"

Mycroft shrugged, a mask of indifference plastered on his face. "I was hoping you could tell me. You seem to be the expert on all things," he gestured to the boxes, "Moriarty."

"Well yes, naturally," Sherlock said impatiently, "but the real question is why. Why now?" The excitement in his voice was apparent, all former thoughts of Irene temporarily forgotten.

"Because we've finally got him where we want him."

Sherlock scoffed at that. "I highly doubt that, dear brother. Jim Moriarty isn't the sort to follow someone's plans, wittingly or unwittingly. In all likelihood, _you're _right where _he _wants you."

Mycroft didn't even blink at the insinuated insult. A whole childhood of living with his brother had desensitized him to being underappreciated. "We've got him in custody, Sherlock."

John perked up at this, having shut out the conversation long ago to retreat into his own thoughts. "What, you've got Moriarty?" All he had heard about the criminal had given him the impression that he wouldn't be caught unless he wanted to be. One look at Sherlock, whose face held a mixture of surprise and intrigue, and John's suspicions were confirmed.

"Fascinating," Sherlock said after a few moments of silence. "Perhaps the better question would be 'why us'?"

Mycroft relaxed, confident that he had baited Sherlock's interest enough. "A myriad if reasons, the least of which being that we don't have any concrete evidence connecting him to his previous crimes. He knows how to cover his tracks."

_Or have them covered for him, _John mused. He finished the older Holmes' thought by saying, "And that's where we come in."

"Precisely. Simple invasion and extraction procedure. We're confident it shouldn't be too difficult for you." Mycroft's eyes were pointed at John's though his words were meant for Sherlock, "Just enough to give you something to do that's more, shall we say, _legal _than your current activities."

Sherlock's eyes darkened at this, his brain working at a million miles an hour to discover just how his brother had found out about his addictions. He opted to push the task to the back of his mind; he had far more important things on which to focus. "What are the terms? I've worked with the Extraction Ministry long enough to know it's never just simple 'invasion and extraction procedure'. There's always a catch."

"Just as long as you only extract the information pertaining to a few specific cases, there is no catch."

"Which is the catch in and of itself, Mycroft."

Mycroft chuckled, his chin lifting ever so slightly. He looked between John and Sherlock like somebody who had a secret he was more than glad to be keeping. "Whatever you wish to call it. We're just ensuring that you and everyone involved doesn't get hurt." He leaned in then, lowering his voice before saying, "The man's mind is a trap. Go in too deep and you'll never get out. Or if you do, you may not return the same as you once were."

Sherlock barked out a laugh that made John look at him abruptly. "You're far too invested in theatrics, Mycroft. But your offer does sound interesting. I'll think it over."

The elder Holmes rolled his eyes and pushed himself out of the armchair. "Of course you will," he said sarcastically, buttoning his suit jacket and reaching to shake John's hand. "I'll tell my men to expect you by Friday, then." With that he gave the two men a nod and promptly retreated out of the door.

Sherlock huffed and lifted himself off his chair, obviously miffed at the time frame set by his brother, and glared at John when the doctor gave him a knowing smile. "What? I'm not _that _predictable, am I?"

"Sherlock, you and I both know you're going to take the case. Why wouldn't Mycroft assume the same thing?"

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock paced the floor between the two chairs, stepping over and around the boxes laid there. "Why, John? Why?"

"Why what?" John replied, knowing full well that he'd receive an answer whether he had acknowledged the question or not.

"Why would Moriarty allow himself to be caught? It's far too simple."

John just shrugged and strode over to the kitchen on the off chance that they might have any edible food. "Maybe he's just had an off day."

"People like Moriarty don't have 'off days'," Sherlock mumbled, eyeing John as he opened the refrigerator door. Sure enough, John's anger resurfaced as he saw the dream drugs once more, and Sherlock plopped himself back down onto the chair, bracing himself for a lecture.

John turned around, several vials held in his hands, and lifted them out towards Sherlock as a parent might do to show what the child had done wrong. "And this, Sherlock. This has got to stop. You can't just run away from your problems like that, alright?"

Sherlock snorted disdainfully. "I don't see why not, everyone else does." John gave him a look of pure disbelief at the childish answer. "Alright. No more drug trips. Except on Friday."

Slightly satisfied, John returned the bottled to the fridge and leaned on the back of the chair across from Sherlock before saying, "So what's the plan? I can't imagine Moriarty's mind is a place to go without the proper resources."

"Mycroft's resources will be enough. Moriarty _wants _us to enter his mind, which frankly does nothing but irritate me. He wants us to know something, and with Mycroft on the job, he'll get his wish."

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><p><em><strong>I'm leaving for a trip tomorrow morning and I wanted to get this out to you guys as soon as possible. I think I know where the story's headed so far, but you never really know. The story and the characters could take you to a completely different road. But anyway, we're getting into the crux of it.<strong>_


	3. 3 Silence and Fixes

**Author's note: I actually started work on this one as soon as the second chapter was uploaded. I want to try and start doing a weekly thing after this chapter is uploaded, so I'm going to strive to upload every Saturday or Sunday. That would probably be the biggest motivator to me. That and your reviews/comments.**

****_"We are addicted to our thoughts. We cannot change anything if we cannot change our thinking."_ _**Santosh Kalwar**_

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><p>The days had gone by slowly, due to the fact that Sherlock had been effectively trying to avoid any sort of contact with John, other than the mandatory "hello's" and "goodbye's" that came along with being flatmates. Sherlock didn't really know the reason behind his avoidance, only that whenever John was near he felt this slight niggling of guilt in his mind. At first he had assumed that being scolded for the dream drugs was the cause, but as John seemed to have forgiven him for that, he was left to wonder what the cause really was. In the end he had chalked it down to his initial secrecy surrounding his collection of files concerning Moriarty. He wasn't quite sure why he had kept the project from John in the first place; maybe it was the obsessive nature of it, or possibly that it was something that belonged to Sherlock and only Sherlock. Whatever the case, the cat had been let out of the bag and John had done nothing to make him feel the way he did now. So Sherlock resolved - on the Thursday evening before the Friday Mycroft had set for them – to break the silence. Sherlock stood at the kitchen table, flipping through files and jotting notes down in a notebook. John sat on the black chair, his face stuffed in a newspaper. Neither of them had said anything all evening.<p>

"John, we should discuss what we'll be doing tomorrow." Sherlock stated matter-of-factly.

The paper was folded in exasperation and banged on the side table in a matter of seconds. "God, _finally. _I was wondering when that would let up," John said, running his hands down the front of his jeans as if staying silent had been the most taxing, energy exerting thing he had ever done. "Yes, please enlighten me on tomorrow's details, Sherlock."

Sherlock blinked, slightly taken aback at John's reaction. If the army doctor had wanted to break the silence, surely he would've made the first move in doing so. But John was stubborn; in fact, it was a miracle they got on as well as they did, with both of their attitudes being the way they were. Nevertheless, he collected the files he had been marking and brought them over to the armchair, oblivious to the sarcasm written all over his flatmate's face. "First we have to guarantee that Mycroft's men are using the right kind of DI's. Knowing them, they'd probably have us stuck in there till Wednesday," he scribbled something down in his notes before he continued. "Then it would probably be of benefit of to both of us if we discussed Moriarty himself; what makes him tick, how he thinks, what you should expect."

John crossed his arms in thought, nodding in agreement with Sherlock. "Mycroft said Moriarty's got no idea he's bringing you in," he said, phrasing his words more like a question than a statement. "But I think we both know that's not true."

"Mycroft's naïve if he takes Moriarty's feigned ignorance at face value. He _wants _an Extractor. It's the whole reason he allowed himself to be caught in the first place."

John paused at this and tried to catch Sherlock's gaze. Sherlock glanced up, well aware of his flatmate's eyes looking him over, and saw the somewhat curious expression that sat on John's face. "What does he want you to see, Sherlock?"

That exact question had been plaguing Sherlock's own mind for days now, and he had been loath to admit to himself that he had no answer for it. Surely Moriarty was opening his mind to Extraction for a reason, and a very important one at that. To have all of one's secrets exposed was a terrifying prospect; one that put even Sherlock on edge. Moriarty wasn't an idiot, and he knew full well what he was getting himself into. He knew that Sherlock could potentially discover every little detail about his life, his crimes, his strengths and weaknesses. That alone was enough to unnerve Sherlock.

Sherlock continued to rifling through the files and mumbled, "I'm not sure. But I expect we'll find out tomorrow." He handed a thin red file to John and set the rest of the floor. "That," he said, motioning to the document John was perusing, "is a list of all unsolved cases Moriarty is assumed to be involved with, and this," Sherlock handed another piece of paper over, "is a list of danger points."

John nodded and looked over the second list attentively. Danger points were possibly the most important things to be aware of while immersed in the dream state, especially with someone like Moriarty; sets of sensitive information or recent events could very well trigger a subconscious response that would wake up the Mark before a deep extraction could be completed. Danger points, if a person had a decent knowledge of Extraction and its more delicate workings, could be used as defense mechanisms of sorts. Unfortunately danger points had the tendency to be connected with the very piece of information the Extractor was trying to recover, but as long as they weren't triggered before the information was found, it didn't much matter if the Mark awoke or not.

"Do you really expect to get any of this information? Or are you just doing this because you know it's Moriarty's colorful way of getting you a message?"

Grinning, Sherlock crossed his legs and rested his chin on his fingertips. John knew him too well. "I guess it all depends on the information, doesn't it?"

"Mmm. Sherlock, I'll be there too, you know. You can't leave me in the dark. I'm as much a part of this as you are." John gave him a look that was all business, all seriousness.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and moved his hands to lightly grip the armrests. John definitely knew him too well. "Mycroft's plans may seem heroic, but I highly doubt there's any way Moriarty's going to let us walk out of that Extraction room with more than he wants us to. It's like a game to him."

For John, the pieces slowly started to fall into place, and he realized what exactly Sherlock was expecting. He tilted his head and smirked ever so slightly, saying, "So we're not even going to look for Mycroft's information. We're just going to let Moriarty's mind tell us where to go."

Sherlock's chin tilted towards his chest and he smiled deviously, eyeing John through his curly locks of dark hair. "Exactly."

Sherlock stared at the passing London scenery through the tinted windows of Mycroft's car, his mind somewhere else completely. As hard as he tried, he couldn't shake the feeling that once he uncovered whatever was in store, that he would be propelled into something he wasn't sure he was prepared for. The file filled with information on the Mark sat between the two flatmates, carefully studied and practically memorized. Except Sherlock had been remiss in writing down the most important detail, and still hadn't bothered to tell John about it. He had grappled with the decision to keep it from John, but as he thought back two years – to the Woman and to his undoing – he had ultimately determined that telling John would only open himself up to more questions and more unhealed wounds than he preferred to have. It was just a hunch that Moriarty could perhaps have been responsible for her death. And it wasn't something Sherlock wanted to dwell on longer than he had to.

"The streets are quiet."

John's soft statement pulled Sherlock out of his reverie and drew his attention to the scenery once more. He was right; London's streets weren't as bustling and lively as they once were. Ever since the invention of the dream inducers, people had found that living in dreams was more appealing than living in reality, as long as the dreams were pleasant and unrevealing. And who was Sherlock to blame them? Two years ago he would have scorned the idea, but he quickly discovered that memories were almost just as good as the real thing. So he had taken to immersing himself in dreams as well, and at the time it had seemed like a good release. It was nice to escape the real world with all its wars and guns and arguments and guilt, and just be in a place where he was indescribably happy and free from harm. But as time wore on and nerves wore thin, Sherlock had gained all the unpleasantries of addiction with none of the benefits of escape. Now the dreams haunted him, tormented him, and even hurt him, but he couldn't kick the habit long enough to recover. His release had become a cage that would break only with time and healing.

Sherlock shrugged indifferently and looked John straight in the eye. "Of course they are. They have been for the past several years. Honestly John, you need to get out more."

John was somewhat taken aback by that sudden biting comment. He almost pressed the issue until he noticed Sherlock's pointer finger rapidly tapping the leather seat and the way his mouth twitched lightly as if agitated. _He hasn't had a fix since last week. My God, he's actually trying. _"Sherlock, are you going to be able to do this today?"

"I've no idea why you'd assume I won't be."

That warranted a small smile on the army doctor's part. Let it never be said that Sherlock Holmes couldn't do a job, even if he was undergoing withdrawal. The car rolled to a stop then, and they found themselves squinting into the sunlight as the door was opened by one of Mycroft's men. John slid out, followed by Sherlock – who had to duck significantly before standing – and they were immediately ushered into the tall, industrial building.

No one spoke as the attendant led them around corners, down halls, and finally into a large elevator, where the button for the 5th floor was pressed. Sherlock threw a quick deductive look at their guide; blonde hair neatly combed back, black suit finely pressed and tailored, glasses cleaned, and shoes polished. Another once-over gave Sherlock a deeper understanding of the man; small red smudges on his face and neck, white shirt surprisingly wrinkled in relation to his suit jacket, one button undone, and belt slightly askew. John noticed Sherlock's subtle deductions and quirked an eyebrow at him, which in turn drew the guide's attention to Sherlock's actions as well. Sherlock grinned smugly and turned his gaze to the door when it opened to reveal the agonizingly sterile 5th floor. The walls were steel silver and the floor covered in black and white linoleum tile, giving the atmosphere a cool, almost barren feel to it. The attendant, who was now quite self-conscious, walked briskly ahead of them and through two glass doors enclosing an organized office. Once Sherlock and John had unceremoniously seated themselves into the two visitor chairs, the glass doors opened and in entered Mycroft, carrying an umbrella on his arm and unbuttoning his jacket.

He sat behind his desk and pulled a few documents out of a drawer before giving his brother and John a look of appraisal. "I'll assume you want to dive right in, then?"

Sherlock leaned forward and simply smiled, any words unnecessary. Mycroft shook his head.

"I would expect nothing less."


	4. 4 Thoughts and Crimes

**Author's note: A huge thank you to all my new subscribers! Seeing all these emails saying people actually enjoy my story is what keeps me going and writing this. We see but a glimpse of Moriarty's mind here, but I have some things planned that I'm really excited for. Just as a heads up, I'm looking at this being at least a 15 chapter fic, so I'll be shooting for that and maybe even beyond. Again, thank you so so much for all your reviews and subscriptions/faves.**

_"There can never be a man so lost as one who is lost in the vast and intricate corridors of his own lonely mind, where none may reach and none may save." **Isaac Asimov**_

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><p>"Hold on, no prepping? No briefings? This isn't some petty thief we're talking about here." John's eyes darted between Sherlock's and Mycroft's as he spoke, his voice clearly expressing his surprise.<p>

Mycroft shrugged and gestured to the attendant, who still stood patiently by the door. "Lucas has spoken with the young scientist in charge of prepping Moriarty, and he assures me everything's set to go."

Neither John nor Mycroft could tell why younger Holmes had chuckled at that, but they didn't pay much attention to it, either. Sherlock was nothing if he wasn't secretive, and when you lived with Sherlock Holmes you learned to get used to that. All three men took the hint when Lucas cleared his throat and opened the door, allowing them to leave the office before he closed it again and headed back towards the elevator. Mycroft, on the other hand, led his brother and John through a different set of stainless steel doors and into a room bustling with scientists in lab coats. Yet another pair of doors opened to reveal a darkly lit observation room, one wall a corkboard filled with newspaper clippings, and the opposite a two-way mirror giving them visual of the man on the other side.

John slowly went up to the window and took in the sight; three white beds – ends meeting to form a triangle – were placed in the center of the room, all with monitors attached in order to keep tabs on the occupants' vital signs. A swivel chair sat next to one of the beds, and a medical table with a number of colored vials was placed in between them. But what really caught John's attention was the dark-haired man already asleep on a bed, the white clothing in stark contrast with the bright blue liquid flowing through the IV tube attached to his arm. Even in his drug-induced sleeping state, the man's demeanor gave off a sense of sly genius, and it put John on edge. He jumped ever so slightly as the observation room door opened and a young woman stepped in and placed two clipboards on the table.

"Ah yes, this is Nora Clarke, our chemist," Mycroft moved to stand next to the brown-haired woman and directed his attention towards the two men peering into the extraction room. "She was in charge of looking over Moriarty's file and prepping him for extraction. Nora, my brother Sherlock Holmes, and his partner Dr. John Watson."

John extended his hand towards Nora and gave her a small smile and a brief nod. Sherlock just smirked once more and looked her up and down.

"Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson," Nora glared at Sherlock, her tone all business.

"Mm, pleasure's all ours, Ms. Clarke. But I'm sure young Lucas could say the same. How is our young intern treating you?"

Nora gave Sherlock a wide, mocking grin and replied without missing a beat, "Much better than you could, I assure you. Now are we here to exchange lovely banter or get down to business?"

Sherlock smiled back, only half genuine, and finally extended his hand as well. "Business it is. Mycroft, don't go through the trouble of firing Ms. Clarke for her little office romance, you won't come out even."

Mycroft gave Nora a sideways glance that would've withered weaker individuals, but the chemist simply cleared her throat and slid the clipboards closer to John and Sherlock. "Release forms. Just in case you go under and don't come back out." John looked up at that, confusion written all over his face. "Don't worry," she continued, "we haven't had any trouble so far. But, you know, safety precautions and all that." A wink sent in his direction was all it took for John to whip his head back down and start signing the form. Sherlock flipped through the papers, eyes sweeping back and forth over the text, and finally signed his name as well. He collected John's clipboard and handed both back to Nora, taking off his coat and hanging it on the back of a chair.

"Well, let's get started, shall we?"

The Exactor and his Point man followed Nora out of the door, through the mass of scientists still sliding along the floors on chairs and typing away at computers, until they finally reached the white extraction room. John subconsciously looked up at where he knew Mycroft was watching from the observation deck, but only saw his own reflection staring back at him. He saw Sherlock in the mirror as well, situating himself on the bed to the right of Moriarty and closest to where Nora sat fiddling with the brightly colored vials. John took his place on the only bed left empty. From where he was laying, he could see Nora inserting the IV into Sherlock's vein, taping it down before she reached up and turned the valve to allow a green liquid to flow through. Sherlock's eyes fluttered closed and his arm went limp as he fell into the land of dreams. Nora slid her chair over to John's bedside and gave his arm a pat, holding her hand expectantly. He gingerly rested his arm in that hand and winced at the sharp pinch of the needle piercing skin. Reaching up to turn the valve, Nora half-smiled. "Ready?"

John hesitated; it'd been two years since he'd messed with DIs, much less entered the dream state. But one thought of Sherlock and what might happen if he were left unattended was what made him nod his head decisively. The valve was flipped, and blackness clouded John's vision, pulling him in deeper and deeper until the slow beeping of the heart rate monitors and the blinding white light were no more than memories. Though he was sleeping on the outside, John was still completely aware of the entire process, and when the faint pulling sensation had dissipated, he took a deep breath before opening his eyes once more.

Gone was the agonizingly clean extraction room; the white walls were replaced with the view of a long abandoned city, the smell of industrial smoke erasing the smell of ammonia. John spun around, hoping to catch a glimpse of Sherlock amidst the ruins, but the extractor was nowhere to be seen. What he did see, though, was a large, six story, white building about 50 yards away. _Dammit, Sherlock, why do you always have to go rushing in without me. _

Trudging through the rubble of broken down buildings, John perused his surroundings. It looked like it had once been a normal industrial city, with skyscrapers and parking garages littering the streets, until time or disaster had claimed it as its victim. He put his money on the latter, due to the charring he could see on the sides of buildings still left standing, and shivered to think what was in store if he and Sherlock delved deeper and deeper into Moriarty's mind. He'd assisted Sherlock with many an extraction, too many to count, and on more than one occasion that had meant diving into the mind of a criminal. But nothing he had seen could match the destruction that lay around him, and no criminal could match the genius that was Moriarty.

He was met with a red double door once he reached the building, and further investigation revealed that the padlock had already been picked and thrown aside. _What happened to not disrupting the dream environment as much as possible, Sherlock? _John bent down and picked up the padlock, hanging it through the handle and slowly opening the door until he could comfortably slip through. Once inside, the only light visible was the light streaming through the crack in the door, but even then John could tell that this floor was as bare as could be. Only a small staircase could be seen, and that led up to the much more promising second floor. John let the door shut behind him and waited until his eyes adjusted to the darkness before starting up the flight of stairs. As soon as his feet hit the second floor threshold, a blinding light met John's eyes and he threw his hands up instinctively; Sherlock stood at the other side of the building, hand resting on a light switch and eyes flashing deviously.

"What took you so long, John? I've already checked this floor, nothing of use to us," Sherlock shouted. He tapped his foot impatiently as John closed the distance between them, looking him over when he came to stop just feet away. "Not exactly what you'd expect from a criminal mastermind," – he gestured to the room around him – "almost too organized. Too clean. Your mind can only be as clean as your thoughts."

John took a look around, now that he could actually see his surroundings; all of the walls had rows of file cabinets built into them, running down the length and almost to the top, only leaving room for their owner to reach in. A rolling ladder was attached to both walls as well. "Wha-"

"Crimes," Sherlock interrupted, "or rather crimes in the making. These are just ideas – concepts really – hardly worth our time. It'll take him years to plan all of these."

"But don't you think this is exactly what Mycroft wanted us to extract in the first place?"

Sherlock grinned like a kid in a candy shop. "Oh, undoubtedly. But it's not what _Moriarty _wants us to extract."

John licked his lips and crossed his arms, staring Sherlock straight in the eyes, before saying, "No. Sherlock, I know I didn't say anything about it before, and I probably should've done, but you're in no state to be doing this. What if we stumble across the wrong information and just to happen to trigger a danger point? It'll either send us back to the surface or send Moriarty to us, and frankly not either of those is a preferable option."

A scoff emitted from the taller man. "Please. Moriarty already knows exactly where we are. Honestly, John, don't be so naïve. You're beginning to sound like my brother."

"Sher-"

John quieted when Sherlock lifted a finger and tapped his ear. John heard it too; the faint creak of a rusty door being closed as carefully as was possible. John's eyes met Sherlock's with a silent question, and was answered with a slight shake of the head. _Not Moriarty. _Instead of asking how in the world Sherlock could know, he simply followed as the extractor glided along the floor towards the unknown intruder. Sherlock finally lowered his hand and glanced up at the roof. "That came from the floor above us. And no, it's not Moriarty, because he wouldn't care if he alerted us. He wants us to find him. No, someone else is here, John." Without a word, Sherlock opened the door to the next staircase and beckoned John through. The smell of rust and mold wafted towards them and caused the two to cover their mouths and noses with their sleeves. Dirty water dripped from the walls and collected in bacteria filled puddles on the floor.

Sherlock smirked and muttered, "Mind's not as clean as you want us to think, is it?"


End file.
